Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [14]
Her mother caught her eye. She was staring over at Nina, looking like one of the heads on a hydra. Over the there-there’s and the he-was-a-good-man’s Nina saw her mother mouth the word: Tea.
She tried to ignore the signal, but her mother hissed insistently, aiming her words across the room at Nina, like a fine jet: — Make more tea.
Nina threw her copy of the NME onto the floor. She hauled herself out of the armchair and moved over to a large dining table, picking up a tray, on which sat a teapot and an almost empty jug of milk.
Through in the kitchen, she studied her face in the mirror, focusing on a spot above her top lip. Her black hair, cut in a sloping wedge, looked greasy, although she had just washed it the night before. She rubbed her stomach, feeling bloated with fluid retention. Her period was due. It was a bummer.
Nina could not be a part of this strange festival of grief. The whole thing seemed uncool. The act of casual indifference she displayed at her Uncle Andy’s death was only partly feigned. He had been her favourite relative when she was a wee lassie, and he had made her laugh, or so they all told her. And, in a sense, she could remember it. These events had happened: the joking, the tickling, the playing, the indulgent supply of ice-creams and sweeties. She could find no emotional connection though, between the her of now and the her of then, and therefore no emotional connection to Andy. To hear her relatives recount these days of infancy and childhood made her squirm with embarrassment. It seemed an essential denial of herself as she was now. Worse, it was uncool.
At least she was dressed for grief, as she was constantly reminded by everyone. She thought that her relatives were so boring. They held onto the mundane for grim life; it was a glum adhesive binding them together.
— That lassie never wears anything but black. In ma day, lassies wore nice bright colours, instead ay tryin tae look like vampires. Uncle Boab, fat, stupid Uncle Boab, had said that. The relatives had laughed. Every one of them. Stupid, petty, laughter. The nervous laughter of frightened children trying to keep on the right side of the school hardcase, rather than that of adults conveying that they had heard something funny. Nina consciously realised for the first time that laughter was about more than humour. This was about reducing tension, solidarity in face of the grim reaper. Andy’s death had put that topic further up the list of items on the personal agenda of every one of them.
The kettle clicked off. Nina made another pot of tea and took it through.
— Nivir mind, Alice. Nivir mind, hen. Here’s Nina wi the tea, her Auntie Avril said. Nina thought that perhaps unrealistic expectations were being invested in the PG Tips. Could they be expected to compensate for the loss of a twenty-four-year relationship?
— Terrible thing whin ye git problems wi the ticker, her Uncle Kenny stated. — Still, at least he didnae suffer. Better than the big C, rottin away in agony. Oor father went wi the ticker n aw. The curse ay the Fitzpatricks. That’s your grandfather. He looked at Nina’s cousin Malcolm and smiled. Although Malcolm was Kenny’s nephew, he was only four years younger than his uncle, and looked older.
— Some day, aw this ticker stuff, n cancer n that, will aw be forgotten aboot, Malcolm ventured.
— Aw aye. Medical science. How’s your Elsa by the way? Kenny’s voice dropped.
— She’s gaun in fir another op. Fallopian tube job. Apparently what they dae is . . .
Nina turned and left the room. All Malcolm seemed to want to talk about were the operations his wife had undergone to enable them to produce a child. The details made the tips of her fingers feel raw. Why did people assume that you wanted to hear that stuff? What sort of woman would go through all that just to produce a screaming brat? What sort of man would encourage her to do that? As she went to the hall, the doorbell rang. It was her Auntie Cathy and Uncle Davie. They had made good time from Leith out to Bonnyrigg.
Cathy hugged Nina. — Oh